


The Liars Club

by neocol



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fight Sex, Fist Fights, GET OUTTA HERE! OUT OUT OUT, Grinding, Hate Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Clothed Sex, ancom has a big dick, and nazi absolutely cannot cope with this fact. at all., light dom/sub?, no jregs allowed within a 5-kilometer radius of this fic, slight size kink, some standard internalized homophobia from the blue bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocol/pseuds/neocol
Summary: Oh,the realization hits as Ancom pins his arms to the floor, the anarchist glaring down at him with a bloody nose.I like this. God-fucking-dammit.
Relationships: Anarcho-Communism/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	The Liars Club

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuse for this filth, fucking NONE
> 
> [ **content warnings:**  
>  ancom gets misgendered since this is all told from nazi's point of view. more nazi-warnings...  
> \- belligerent ignorance about what dysphoria is  
> \- brief references to misconceptions about female anatomy  
> \- internalized homophobia  
> \- other nasty shit that comes part and parcel with our favorite Blue Bastard™'s internal character pondering; you know the drill]

It starts and ends, as all degenerate things tend to do, with Ancom’s dick. Ah yes, Ancom’s dick, which is apparently _so contentious a topic_ that, the last time someone even mentioned its existence in this house, he got clubbed in the face and left to bleed all over the living room floor. (“I’m _not_ a fucking guy,” Ancom had snarled before stomping angrily out of the house.)

Nazi had to accept getting stitches from _Commie,_ of all people. It _wasn’t_ pretty; the dumb Marxist hypocrite believed painkillers were scarce and precious and way too good to waste on fascists. This, of course, made no sense whatsoever, but Nazi’s attempt to call this bullshit out was only met with an excruciatingly hard yank of the thread through his skin. It hurt like a bitch to let Commie have the last word, but unfortunately not as much as the actual stitches did, so Nazi kept his mouth shut that one time.

But anyway. Back to Ancom’s dick. (And, while he was at it, _screw_ that useless junkie for even making his dick occupy valuable space in Nazi’s mind, where it certainly didn’t belong. At all. Or any other dick for that matter. That mental real estate should only be for clean, _white_ , hymen-intact pussy, and really only in the context of producing more white children, which was the real goal.)

Nazi didn’t get what the big deal was, seriously. Ancom obviously had a dick. He _sounded_ like he had one, despite the attempts to disguise this fact with that unbearable screeching he called his voice. So why make it a whole thing? Day in and day out, Ancom went on and on and _on_ with his impassioned drug-addled rants about how shitty and depressed his pathetic... sex... dysmorphia or whatever it was called (Nazi didn’t give a fuck; it was all mental) made him feel.

Boo hoo. Ancom was probably a micro limp-dicked weakling anyway. Maybe that was why he hated it so much and tried to forget its existence by pretending not to be male at all. Typical. So called “sex dysmorphia?” His “being other than male or female?” As made up as all the other shit Ancom believed, that was for sure. Nothing more than excuses.

Or so Nazi thought, anyway.

He can pinpoint the specific moment his reality shatters—no. Splinters? No. Cracks slightly? No way in hell. Anything about Ancom can’t possibly affect Nazi that significantly. Like, come on, it’s _Ancom_ , the loser who’s pretty much just Commie’s lapdog half the time and Ancap’s methamphetamine QA tester the other half. Ancom is _nothing._ And yet.

_And yet._

It happens during an insignificant, unremarkable date, late into the night. Commie is probably already sleeping since he’s a madman who has a 6:00 AM wakeup time. Meanwhile, Ancap’s away on some business trip, most likely living it up at this very moment. Nazi only leaves the comfortable shelter of his room for a quick trip downstairs to find a midnight snack, aiming to steal some of the pretzel bread Commie baked earlier that day, which is stashed in the fridge somewhere. But before he can get there, he’s distracted with the noise emanating from the living room. The TV is on, and there’s giggling, too, which considering the current state of the household can only have one source.

Nazi enters the living room, unsurprisingly to find something raunchy and gay playing, while Ancom laughs along like the disgusting perverted shit he is. The anarchist’s eyes are half-lidded staring at the screen, his body slouching on the couch and his knees bumping into the coffee table in front of him. The table hosts a couple empty bottles of beer, half-unrolled pieces of paper, and snatches of white powder that used to be neat little lines of coke. Nazi wonders when he got home, then half a second later tells himself he shouldn’t care. Thought: trashed.

Only... to be replaced by something unimaginably _worse_ as Nazi’s eyes land on _it._ The bulge. And the thing is—the thing is. Nazi knows Ancom has a dick. It’s obvious that he does, despite the aforementioned refusal to acknowledge it exists. But that bulge has absolutely no business being that big. It doesn’t make sense. _Micro limped-dick weakling, who pretends not to be a man out of shame and inferiority._ ‘Huge bulge seemingly straining to break free out of Ancom’s pants’ doesn’t fit that profile. Nazi can’t wrap his head around it.

Not that he would want to. Why would he want to? He doesn’t, because he shouldn’t. That’s disgusting, and degenerate, and it has no right to occupy valuable mental real estate. Clean, white, hymen-intact pussy. Good thoughts. Think them.

...But _why_ is he so big? Nazi stares some more, trying to crack the code. And, more importantly, why is it _Ancom,_ who happens to be so well-endowed? Nothing’s adding up. There is just—no universe, no dimension, no _timeline_ in which Nazi would ever put ‘Ancom’ and ‘big dick’ within the same sentence. No.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Ancom’s voice snaps him back to reality. He tries to meet Nazi’s gaze, and then after realizing that Nazi’s line of sight is slightly off, follows that gaze until— “Huh. For someone who claims to hate gay people, you’re staring at my crotch pretty intensely.”

Nazi looks away and scoffs. “No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.”

“And if I was, it was just for a moment. It wasn’t that intense.”

“Yes it was.”

“And if it was, it was out of _disgust.”_

“Was it really?”

Ancom has stood up from the couch by this point and is now facing off against Nazi toe to toe. How he’s able to walk straight with however many substances he has in his system at any given moment, Nazi will never know. Something something tolerance, not exactly his field of expertise.

And the thing is, Ancom is shorter than him. This is a fact. They’re facing off, and this close, Ancom has to tilt his head up to meet Nazi’s gaze. Nazi is literally larger than him. So why is _he_ the one feeling small, forced into an audible and visible gulp when met with Ancom’s dark, dilated pupils? Ancom still has that stupid mask on, too, so Nazi can’t see his expression, but he’s _sure_ Ancom is definitely smirking right now with the unbearable smugness of knowing he has a chip in Nazi’s armor to pick at. The distance between them narrows as—

 _Ugh,_ what’s he doing with himself? Nazi snaps out of the momentary insanity to push Ancom away by the shoulders. “Get _away_ from me, you gremlin. You think just because we live together, you can tip me into your disgusting and degenerate ways but you _can’t._ My cause is noble and _I_ am _pure.”_

Ancom chuckles at this. The bastard. “You know, you give me serious doubts as to whether or not you actually believe the shit that spews out of your mouth on a daily basis. But you mean it, don’t you? You don’t even try to hide behind saying it’s ‘just a meme’ or some other fucking excuse. You’re proud of it.”

Nazi’s eyebrows furrow. “Uh, duh. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m the only one here who has anything to _be_ proud of, and that’s the white race, who founded modern western civilization—”

Ancom cuts him off with a swift hook to the jaw, sending a stunned Nazi stumbling backwards. “Why so surprised? As if I haven’t told you the consequences of talking _this sheer volume_ of shit, you fascist fuck.”

Nazi grits his teeth against the bit of blood starting to pool in his mouth. “Okay, _that’s it.”_ He stomps forward with determination, then yanks Ancom’s mask down so he can see the anarchist’s face fully just before punching him right on the nose. Ancom falls back on the couch with the impact, and before he can recover from the blow to retaliate, Nazi is pouncing on him with one hand on the couch to cage Ancom’s side and the other firmly on Ancom’s neck.

The anarchist squirms against the choke hold, clawing at Nazi’s hand, but to no avail. He isn’t getting out of this so easily. Even with the pain of Ancom’s sharp nails tearing at the skin of his hand, Nazi feels a strange sort of jubilation. He can feel his pulse thrumming at the sight of blood from the earlier punch spilling over a grimacing Ancom’s teeth as he struggles to break free. There’s also... _something_ starting at the pit of Nazi’s stomach, maybe lower, that he dares not think about.

However, it seems he might have already been thinking too much, since he soon loses what ground he has in their silly tussle when Ancom changes tact. All of a sudden, he stills, but it’s only for a split second, and then he’s kneeing Nazi hard in the gut. Nazi loses his balance thanks to the explosion of pain, giving him a one-way ticket to the floor. And this time, it’s Ancom who blocks his escape by swinging a leg up over Nazi’s torso and trapping him with his weight.

The _something_ that started out so faint, so small, is practically screaming in intensity now. Nazi isn’t even sure what he’s feeling, if it’s the adrenaline from the fight, the pain from Ancom’s blows, or something else sharp and tingly he can’t pinpoint because of how it washes over him and overwhelms his capacity for thought. His senses somehow feel dulled and heightened at the same time, but in spite of all the conflicting signals, Nazi’s whole body is unified in telling him one thing: keep still. Ancom rights himself so that he’s looming over Nazi, which makes it so that most of Ancom’s weight is now pressing directly on Nazi’s pelvis, and—

 _Oh,_ the realization hits him like a truck as Ancom pins his wrists to the floor, the anarchist glaring down at him with a bloody nose. _I like this. God-fucking-dammit._

It’s perhaps too little, too late of an epiphany because a moment later, Ancom’s eyes widen. He experimentally presses his weight down harder, wiggles over Nazi’s crotch, and Nazi feels his soul escape his body when the smirk returns to Ancom’s face.

“Are you _hard_ right now?” The anarchist taunts. _As if_ Nazi would ever dignify that absurd query with a response, so he keeps his mouth stubbornly shut, forgetting the most important adage about dealing with a lib left: _damned if you do, damned if you don’t._ So Ancom is only further encouraged by the silence to keep rubbing it in. “First you kept staring at me, and now you’re hard because of a fistfight? Damn, Nazi, I knew you were painfully repressed, but not _that_ repressed.”

“ _Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. Shut. Up. Just shut your filthy fucking word hole.”_ Internally, Nazi begs for the ground to swallow him up whole and return him to the Aryan pagan gods.

To his dismay nothing happens, and he’s still trapped, with an erection, under a gloating Ancom.

“Aww, don’t worry. I’m not gonna pelt slurs at you for having degenerate thoughts like your 4chan friends do.” Ancom laughs at his own unfunny joke. “You’re so fixated on controlling and dominating people, but I bet it’s because secretly you’re the one who wants to be held down and forced to take whatever’s given to you.”

“You’re delusional,” Nazi says, but with a weaker inflection than he intended for it to come out. Shit, he’s slipping.

“And you’re hard.”

“Well, so are you!”

“Psh, coke always makes me horny. Huh, maybe that’s why I’m more willing to put up with you right now; I just need to get off.”

Nazi tries his best to perform a total non-reaction to that, and _not_ squirm around the specific area where Ancom is currently sitting on him. “That’s not my problem.”

Ancom breathes an exaggerated sigh. “Why don’t you, for once in your life, be honest with yourself and tell me: do you want me to get off of you and forget this ever happened, _or_... do you wanna come?” The latter point is accentuated with another roll of Ancom’s hips, eliciting a choked off breath from Nazi. Shit shit shit.

Nazi shuts his eyes in an attempt to clear his head, except _bad choice_ because doing so just gives him nothing to focus on except how hard he is and how he can faintly feel Ancom’s own hardness through their clothes and how, with a couple less layers, he’d finally be able to feel the hot length of—

No! Dammit!

“Come,” he spits out begrudgingly. “I want to come.”

Ancom rewards this by setting Nazi’s wrists free and leaning back to get a better angle as he grinds against him. Now the layers of clothing between them feel downright oppressive. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

It wasn’t. It was so easy. _That’s the problem._

It’s way too easy to slip deeper into the degenerate state of mind where the unacceptable (Ancom, his body, his whole _existence)_ becomes acceptable (Nazi feeling his mouth watering at the thought of the anarchist’s dick).

It’s way too easy to stop breathing altogether when Ancom, in heady silence, reaches forward with a thumb at Nazi’s lower lip to smear the blood beginning to dry on it.

It’s way too easy for Nazi’s brain to all but blank out when Ancom says, “But you’ll have to get used to saying what you want. For example, _how_ do you wanna come? You gotta say it.”

It takes every sliver of willpower within Nazi not to cover his face. He knows it would be the ultimate show of capitulation, of weakness, of submission, but at the same time he’s not entirely sure if it’s better to let Ancom see whatever color his face is right now. Never has shamelessness felt so wrong. “Your... I want... _This is fucking humiliating.”_

“Come on, you can do it.” A purposeful grind here. “Denial’s never gotten you anywhere.” A dirty little wiggle there. “You should know that by now.” The tantalizing friction reminds him of what he can have, what he’s so close to getting, too much to ignore but at the same time not nearly enough.

 _Fuck it._ “I want you to fucking touch me. I want to come from... your dick on mine. I want it so much I feel like I’m going fucking crazy because it makes _no fucking sense_ and I shouldn’t even be thinking about you. Why does it have to be _you?”_

Silence.

Total, deafening, pregnant silence.

And then, Ancom lets out a single, shocked chuckle. “Wow, that’s gay.”

Nazi closes his eyes and pictures Ancom dead, dead, _dead._ “Fuck you. _Fuck you._ I am going to hunt you down while you sleep and fill you with a hundred fucking bullet holes, just you wait.”

“I’d _love_ to see you try,” Ancom replies without missing a beat, before pulling down the zipper on Nazi’s trousers. Nazi lets out a sharp breath when Ancom takes him in hand, teasing him with little flicks of his thumb on the tip of Nazi’s dick.

“What about you?” Nazi asks, and immediately regrets it. _Why the fuck did he have to sound so eager_ —

“I’ll let you open my zipper with your teeth. You wanna?”

 _Yes._ “Get fucked.”

“All in due time, Nazi,” Ancom says lightly, then lifts off of Nazi’s lap and onto his knees for a moment to push his pants down. When Ancom’s dick finally, _fucking finally,_ springs free from its confines, it’s somehow even bigger than Nazi expected, and he finds his mouth beginning to water again. Without thinking much about it, he reaches out, but Ancom stops him. “Uh-uh, you don’t get to touch it with your _hands.”_ Almost as if ensnared in some twisted pattern of call-and-response, Nazi feels his dick twitch from that.

He absolutely _does not_ squirt a truly pitiful and embarrassing amount of pre when Ancom brings their dicks together. And he _does not_ stifle a moan when Ancom starts stroking slowly, building up a rhythm, driving Nazi crazy with the dual textures and pressures of Ancom’s hand and dick against Nazi’s own. And yet all the while, Nazi’s hands quiver minutely from the pleasure from where they’re planted on the floor behind him, kept away just like Ancom told him to do.

The worst thing about _all_ of this, though, is the way Ancom stubbornly keeps eye contact. Actually, no, scratch that; the worst thing about all of this is how eye contact with Ancom doesn’t even turn Nazi off, when it really should. Everything about this situation should be a turn-off, but instead— _shit,_ Nazi finds himself already close to coming. He tries to say so, but it comes out more as a series of pathetic little grunts.

Ancom must get something from that, though, because the motions of his hand speed up. Spurred on by further noises from Nazi, Ancom’s other hand starts working at their dicks too, smearing pre all over their shafts to make the slide smoother. Ancom is breathing unevenly now, staccato breaths that punctuate the noises of slick between them, and Nazi fucking despises himself for being brought to the brink of orgasm by _that_ just as much as the pleasure of his dick being touched.

It makes no fucking sense at all, how Ancom’s voice normally—a solid 99% of the time—makes Nazi wish a percussive grenade would bust his ears so he doesn’t have to keep hearing it, but _now_ it’s turning him on. Must be this whole situation, a serving full of insanity, making it weird, sinking Nazi into the depths of degeneracy until his vision blurs at the edges and he’s shooting out come onto Ancom’s hand and lap. Ancom milks him through it, gradually slowing down the movements of his hands, switching back to just one, turning the pace languid until even that becomes too much for Nazi’s oversensitive dick and he’s jerking away.

For maybe a minute, Nazi just sits there panting, head tilted up to the ceiling and eyes closed, reveling in a surprisingly mindblowing orgasm. From Ancom’s hands (and dick) no less. Then he catches himself, then he startles, because Ancom is still hard.

Ancom catches Nazi surreptitiously glancing at his dick immediately. “Why, you wanna take care of it?”

Nazi’s hands, now resting in his lap, twitch in anticipation. Ancom chuckles. “Oh no, I still won’t let you use your hands. But your mouth...” He trails off, but Nazi’s imagination fills in the mental image just fine. His mouth already kinda feels full from him thinking of it, of the weight of Ancom’s (big, hard, throbbing) dick on his tongue and the scent of him _everywhere_ with that close of a proximity.

He wants to. “I want to.” Ancom hums and nods approvingly, which is all the permission Nazi needs to get on all fours and shove his face into Ancom’s crotch. He stops short of touching and only stares at first, marveling and the scent and the length and girth of Ancom’s dick right in front of his face. Will it even fit in his mouth? Nazi has no idea what he’s doing, just that he’s, apparently, really fucking hungry for cock.

He lets his instincts guide him from there: starting at the head with little licks at the smeared pre, tonguing at the slit (Ancom’s breath hitches), before working up to wrapping his lips around the glans. Nazi bobs his head a few times, each time reaching a bit deeper than the last, filling more of his mouth with Ancom’s dick with every pass until his lips are reaching the beginning of the shaft. There he pauses for a deep inhale, hyperaware of how the anarchist’s girth is already stretching his lips, and whatever will he do once the tip of Ancom’s dick reaches the back of his throat? The thought of it wrenches a moan out of him, and suddenly he can’t wait to get there.

Ancom is making consistently encouraging noises now, eyes glued to the way more of his length disappears into the maddening wetness and suction of Nazi’s mouth, though Nazi himself can’t keep eye contact for long enough, has to close his eyes after a while to just focus on _feeling._ He wonders whether Ancom is the one getting more out of this or he is. Sucking dick _should not_ be making Nazi this horny, especially right after coming and while being currently untouched.

The fate of his second boner is sealed when Ancom purrs, “I should’ve known you’d be a natural at this, _fuck._ ” And... further sealed when Nazi moving his tongue while sinking onto more of Ancom’s length breaks the anarchist’s grip on control, his hips stuttering forward to chase the wet heat. _That’s_ how Ancom’s dick hits the back of Nazi’s throat: the anarchist fucking his mouth, Nazi’s eyes pricked with tears and his dick straining at full mast against his belly. However, Ancom seems to regain control quickly, his hand finding its way to the back of Nazi’s head, and he grips him by the hair to pull him off. Ancom breathes raggedly at first, then says, “You weren’t complaining. Don’t fucking tell me you don’t have a gag reflex either.”

“Why, was that supposed to hurt?” _Because, in that case, I liked it way too much._

Ancom scoffs in wonder. Nazi rolls his eyes. “Whatever, can I continue now?” Though he doesn’t wait for a response before diving back in. The feeling of his mouth being full, stuffed to the brim with Ancom’s dick, is almost too good for words. The weight of the cock, the slick sounds of saliva, Ancom’s grunts and moans, and the barely restrained movements of his hips—all of these conspire so that when Ancom’s dick twitches in Nazi’s mouth and he says he’s gonna come, Nazi is somehow right there with him.

Nazi pops off so that just the tip of Ancom’s dick stays in his mouth, and he tries to take all of Ancom’s come, but there’s a lot of it, so some ropes of white dribble out the sides of Nazi’s lips as he licks Ancom’s dick clean. Nazi’s own come is drying stickily on the floor where he came a second time, completely untouched. They’re both breathing hard.

“Did you just—?” Ancom starts, then does a double take at the come on the floor. He laughs incredulously. “Holy fucking shit.”

Nazi can’t muster more than a vaguely affirmative hum from where his cheek is resting on Ancom’s knee. He’s too boneless and sated right now to even speak. So, that’s the effect of Ancom’s dick on him.


End file.
